


Baby Boy

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ageplay, Gen, Nonsexual Ageplay, Post Reichenbach, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's come home, but it's not like what it was before. His daddy's not his daddy anymore, and in the wake of being hunted that hurts more than anything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> I was reading a few ageplay fics in another fandom, and I realized I hadn't seen any post reichenbach ageplay fics in the Sherlock fandom. So obviously I had to write one.

The sensation of eyes on his back is what wakes Sherlock from restless dreams. In spite of that, he does not jerk awake. He does not sit up, does not change position, does not even open his eyes. Even though the hair on the back of his neck is prickling, heart pounding from a sudden flood of adrenaline, he remains completely still until his mind has cleared enough for him to be able to examine the room with his other senses. The air around him is still and calm, the only sound the thudding of his heart. As the minutes tick by and this does not change, he allows one eye to open slowly. 

He is alone.

It is not a breath of relief that escapes him as he straightens, but the closest he will allow. The enclosed space of 221c feels strange and unfamiliar, even though he is surrounded by all of his lab equipment. He stands slowly, suddenly aware of the stiffness in his spine, and turns to leave. His experiment is ruined, and he will have to begin again in the morning - provided he cares enough, that is.

He lets himself out and eases the door shut, knowing that the hour is late. His footsteps are quiet as he ascends the steps to 221b. The flat is silent, no signs of life, and Sherlock realizes that he does not know if John is even home. There are little signs that the doctor is around somewhere: trainers kicked off at the door, a coat thrown over the back of the sofa, but he no longer takes them for the absolute truth that he would have once. He and John operate on two different wavelengths now. They no longer mesh, and he is never more aware of that than when his mind tries to deduce things about John. He is just as likely to be wrong as right. 

Sherlock sits down on the sofa. It doubles as his bed now, but he is not tired. Or rather, he is at the point where the word _tired_ has lost all meaning. He sits and rests his hands on his knees, and he stares at the bedroom door. It would be so very simple to get up, to walk across the room and open that door. John would not argue against it. John doesn't argue against much - he doesn't really talk much, either, not even when Sherlock moved his experiments downstairs.

He has not been inside that room over two years, but he remembers every detail perfectly. He's dreamed of that room so many times while he'd been away. Not once had he thought, stopped to consider, that it might be like this.

His heart rate has slowed in the wake of a lack of threat, and he brings his hands up and scrubs them roughly through his hair. Growing out now, finally, the shortened locks had been driving him mad. He doesn't like the way John looks at him when his hair is short. It's a tangible reminder that things have changed, that no matter what Sherlock does he cannot make it better.

Somewhere outside the flat, there is a muffled thud.

He straightens, all senses on alert.

Another thud, this one distant, and then the drunken yell of a teenager fills the air.

It's nothing, he realizes. Not a threat, just another idiot having a good time on a Friday night. His hands slide slowly from his hair and hide his face, just a moment, before curling into fists as he stands up. He walks across the room, stands in front of the door. He doesn't mean to open it. He really doesn't. He just wants, wants to see, if it's the same, if it's changed, if he's been remembering correctly... 

The walls are painted a soft shade of periwinkle blue, soothing and calming to the naked eye. The sheets are a darker blue and have been so neatly made up. On the nightstand is a thin book, the colours garish but welcoming. A desk that is covered with papers, files, for cases that have probably been closed or forgotten by now. In the corner of the room, a box of research that had never made it out. There are pictures on the walls, the periodic table of elements. It all looks normal.

Sherlock looks closer.

What might be taken for a lump on the bed is actually, _yes_ -

Somehow he finds himself inside the room, beside the bed. On that bed, nestled lovingly against the pillows, is a stuffed toy. It is bright and clearly loved, the body an obnoxious shade of yellow. The fat behind is striped black and yellow, the legs dark brown, the wings a gossamer shade of white. The fur has been rubbed raw in certain places, clutched too tightly against a chest rising and falling in sleep. If he saw this toy at a crime scene, he would take it to be the toy of a child who had cherished and slept with it every night. And he would be wrong. 

When he begins to cry, it startles him. He has not slipped for a very long time. It was never safe, before, because any one of Moriarty's friends could have stumbled upon him and taken advantage. But now he slumps to his knees and puts his head against the bed and cries. The sobs come from somewhere deep within, a building pressure in his chest that he has been unable to loosen for years, and they should feel good but they don't. It hurts as they claw their way up through his throat and emerge as muffled wails, and he howls louder because of it.

"What on earth - Sherlock?" The light flips on as John stumbles in. He stops in the doorway, taking in the scene before him with confusion. He stays there for a second, the longest second of Sherlock's life, longer even then when he was poised on the edge of a rooftop. 

He can't stop crying.

"Sherlock," John says again, but there is something infinitely gentler in the way he says this time. The light remains on, but John approaches. He crouches down on the floor with a grunt and reaches out to pry Sherlock's hands away from the sheets. Sherlock resists but John is firm, and eventually he is turned away from the bed and pulled into a warm hug.

John is dressed in pyjamas, loose and soft, and the material crumples under Sherlock's fists. He lets his face be pressed against John's good shoulder, not even trying to pull away after the first few pitiful attempts. He cries louder, his breath growing short, body trembling, and steady hands begin to stroke a soothing rhythm through his hair, across his shoulders, down his back. It's meant to be comforting, but it only makes him feel worse. This does not belong to him, not anymore.

"Sherlock," John's saying, and he sounds worried, "Sherlock, you're hyperventilating. You have to calm down."

But he can't _calm down_ , all those months of have stressed his control and he feels fractured, like everything is coming apart. He shakes harder and starts to panic when he realizes that he can't breathe anymore, the sobs pressing against his throat and tangling up the stuttered gasps, and John swears and twists around. Sherlock grabs onto him tightly, and John settles him with a firm hand to one shoulder while he gropes for something up above their heads.

"Here," he says, "look, sweetheart, look what Daddy's got."

The feel of the longed-for, worn fur against his arms is impossible to ignore, and Sherlock cracks one eye open to stare at his - the toy with interest. He's almost too preoccupied to notice the way his breathing begins to automatically slow, falling into the same in-and-out as the chest he's tucked securely against, though the tears continue to stream down his cheeks. John nudges the toy between them until Sherlock has no choice but to take it, so he does, but he keeps one hand curled around John's shirt and clutches at it with the other.

"There you go," John says, his voice high and shaky with relief. "There you are."

He shakes his head, biting down on a whimper, and tucks his face against the toy. 

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock does not answer.

"Sherlock, tell me what's wrong."

And that's the voice John always uses, the one that is a warm mix of exasperation and fondness, and Sherlock whispers helplessly against the toy, "You're not my daddy anymore. You don't love me anymore." He starts to shake again, bone-deep shudders that make him twitch all over.

"What? Where did you - what?" John shakes his head, swears quietly again, the sort of language he normally tries to limit around Sherlock because Sherlock likes to repeat after him. "Sherlock, that's not it at all."

"Yes it is!" He can feel the pressure throbbing in his chest again, the tears coming faster, and John immediately holds him tighter and begins to rock them back and forth. The familiar motion is repetitive, distracting, and Sherlock whimpers again but goes quiet. He doesn't know how long they stay like that. He can stop watching, stop _waiting_ when they're like this. 

"Sherlock, I love you so much," John says at last, barely audible but determined. "God, if you only knew how much I love you. Things have been different since you came home, but that... won't change. The thing is, I - I don't _trust_ you anymore." And Sherlock tries to pull away, whining, but John holds firm and grips his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "I don't trust you," he repeats, "but trust and love are two different things. You can _earn_ my trust again, by not leaving me behind or doing foolish things on your own. But you will never have to earn my love. That's yours, baby boy, and it's never stopped."

The words are passionate, but confusing, and Sherlock knows he will have to examine them in detail when he is older. But for now, he can see the determination in John's face. The raw truth that is written there. He says, "You haven't... are you still my daddy?"

"As long as you want me to be," John says, which is what he always says when Sherlock asks, and that is so comforting that Sherlock's breath hitches and he starts to cry again. John keeps rubbing his back and saying his name softly, telling him that it's okay, but he doesn't try to make Sherlock stop. "You should've come to me before," he says after a long time.

Sherlock just shakes his head and sniffles, and John sighs. "I think it's time for bed."

"No!"

"Yes." John has perfected the art of standing up even while being clung to. He pulls Sherlock up and sits him down on the edge of the bed. "Stay there. I'll be right back."

Sherlock stays, but he doesn't want to. He grips his bee tightly and stares at the door, listening for any sounds that might mean he's being left alone. John knows what he's doing as soon as he comes back into the room, of course he does, and his face gets that pinched look. But he doesn't say anything. He's got a wet, warm cloth with him that he uses to clean Sherlock's face and hands, and then he leans down and presses his lips to Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock goes still under the kiss, eyes fluttering shut.

"You've got a low fever," John says at last, smoothing his hair back. "You've been upset for a long time, haven't you?"

He gives a tiny nod, and John closes his eyes for a moment before he sighs again. 

"Lay down, sweetheart." He reaches down and pushes the covers aside, helping Sherlock to stretch out. Sherlock looks up at him, eyes big, and John says, "Do you want me to stay?"

Another nod, and after switching off the light John climbs up onto the bed and lets Sherlock scramble over and clutch at his shirt again. He wraps an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "Go to sleep, Sherlock. We'll talk some more in the morning, okay?"

Sherlock's throat hurts from crying, and he's so very warm and tired, but he still manages to whisper, "Okay, Daddy."


End file.
